


Sins of the Father

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: ...of a sort, Confessional, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: Blind, in the deepest nightReaching out, grasping for a fleeting memoryAll the thoughts keep piercing this broken mindI fall, but I'm still standing motionless.
Relationships: Credo (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Sins of the Father

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write something to do with filthy confessional stall things, but couldn't really settle on one idea. 🤔 Blowjobs and straight up confessional sex is definitely fun, but I wanted to try for something else? Not saying it's a unique idea by any means, but the ending of this is pretty much the crux of the setting slkjdfh.
> 
> Anyway, pls enjoy!? 💖🙏😭

**Would you speak them to me?**

**With your breath so still, it makes me believe**

**In the Father's sins**

**Let me suffer now and never die**

**I'm alive**

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

Though proud Fortuna Castle was once the central location for all of the Order's religious gatherings, this is no longer the case with the current vicar being who he is. But this only means the confessionals, built to cleanse mind and soul, welcoming of all who seek forgiveness, lie dormant and forgotten, having long fallen out of use even by the members of the Order who _do_ have access to the Castle. They now gather dust in a lonely hallway, eerily silent with only the faint whispers of old prayers on the wind as their company.

At least until tonight.

The interior of one booth is lit with warm candlelight, smelling faintly of an incense that bleeds nostalgia, but heavily of varnish too, inducing a chemical high to go along with the one that rushes, unbidden, through veins.

"What ails you, child?"

The words already feel filthy coming out of his mouth, throat already so dry, no matter how much he swallows. Credo chances a glance to his right, to glimpse you through the screen that separates him from you even though you're nothing but an indistinct silhouette to him. All of your finer details, the ones he loves to admire; your eyes, your hair, the shape of your lips as they wrap around your own words, are all kept from him, as vague as the smile you'd flashed him when you brought this whole thing up. But he does have to admit, this distance, forced to make do with the mere outline of you, is just as compelling as two bodies crammed into a closet far too small, pressed against shelves that dig painfully into bared backs. This could never surpass that desperate tangled mess of arms and legs, sharing breath and passion in the same turn, but it comes frighteningly close.

"I fear I desire a man more than I do our God." You stare into your lap as you speak, a calm overtaking you in spite of your blasphemous confession. "I no longer know the prayers of our Saviour, or the sermons that we preach. Only the burn of his hand on my skin." You swipe your tongue over your bottom lip, treating him to the shape of your tongue peeking past your lips. He may not be able to see the depths of your depravity, you know he can very well hear it in the pitch and sway of your voice; a siren's call tailored specifically for his ears. "Only the way he drives me to the very edge of the world night after night, and sends me into the darkness. There is nothing holy in the words he delivers upon me, no gentle guidance through the labyrinth of life, and yet I give myself fully to them."

You shift on the worn cushioned seat inside the booth, legs spreading as you softly, gently graze your fingertips up your own smooth thighs, slipping underneath your skirt and trailing ever higher. It bunches up around your hand as you go, revealing far too much skin, far too much lace for such a chaste setting. You press and tease at yourself through your panties, only featherlight touches for now, fleeting in their nature, but so bold in how you dip into your slit.

"Alone I am so empty, but with him, my chalice is full - overflowing - and he drinks of me so deeply."

Credo utters the barest of noises at that, hardly even a groan, but below, his legs are tensing until they strain against the belts around his thighs. His cock is already beginning to harden, bulging up through his pants, confined and pressed so tightly against his leg that even the barest movement sparks pleasurable friction. He hears you shift on the other side of the screen too, a rustle of clothing, a snap of elastic. And then something small and light drops to the floor of the booth, a sound that he has memorised, and sends a tingling rush from his fingertips, right down to his toes, which curl uncomfortably in his boots.

He can see it in his mind's eye, the vivid image of you with your skirt hiked up around your hips, legs spread and baring yourself to an imaginary audience. This version of you is already glistening with slick too; it pools underneath you where you gather it upon your fingers to spread over your folds–

Credo swallows, gulps hard enough that it hurts, his fingers twitching over the outline of his cock in his pants. "You feel shame in seeking the pleasures of the flesh?"

"Yes, Father, because I alone can no longer quench the flames of my own desires." Another shift, another creak of wood, a click of the heel of your boot as you prop it upon the seat. You're so generous in the sweeps of your fingers over your cunt now, a constant rise and fall as you follow your slit from your entrance to your eager little clit. Your breathing grows laboured. "I need him as I once needed our Saviour. I need his presence upon me, I need to feel him around me, bestowing his gifts and his touch."

"And there is no one else you desire so?"

"No." your fingers slow, dipping inside you only to the first knuckle; barely there when you're used to much longer, thicker things. "I think of him constantly. His strong hands that move me as he pleases. The fire that he kisses into my skin. How I crumble beneath his strength and his will, and how his sin drips from my chin."

The proud General makes a strained noise, one of reluctance, but the click of his belt unfastening echoes inside the small chamber anyway, rushed and hasty. Material is pulled apart, clothing is adjusted, his glove is yanked off his hand with his teeth, which he spits out of his mouth without a second thought. Then his heavy cock is in his hand, fully hard and beading at the tip. It drips when he applies pressure, squeezing just under the head the same way that you do for him. It doesn't have the same effect, his hand is too rough, lacks the coy delicacy of _you_ , but as he listens to you speak in that roundabout way, the vigorous throb of his cock speaks for itself. This is… so different, an utter departure from the sort of intimacy he's learned to expect from you, but the thrill is far beyond anything he's felt. Your words, hand picked, and spoken with so much care, scrape only the surface, skirt around the very edges of the obscenities you're describing, yet he feels ready to burst from your voice and projected imagery alone. His pulse races, wild and erratic, his breaths fall in choppy waves, and all of _this_ \- this tension that seethes just below the surface - rises from elusive and evasive turns of phrase that are somehow both ambiguous and so daring, providing just enough for his imagination to fill in the gaps. And that it does, with avarice and abandon. The array of images that flash behind his closed eyes do more for him than the greedy pumps of his hand; he sees you bent over his desk, gripping the far edge, his chest to your back; his fingers, bruising, on your hips; flushed skin, shiny with sweat, and the most compelling of them all; his hand on the back of your head, the remnants of his pleasure dripping slowly from your parted lips, your chest heaving just below…

Credo releases a breath and his eyes open again to a world of saturated colour. Even your voice sounds a little different now, dripping with honey as sweet as the nectar that pours from you. He wonders if you can hear him too, the sound of skin on skin as he slowly pumps his cock, or the slide of his boots on the worn carpet inside the booth as he finds the right leverage to thrust into his own hand. Or perhaps, are you too caught up in the immoral web you're weaving with every word spoken, just as ensnared as he?

"Even now, I want to bask in the mortal pleasures he bequeaths." A quiet squelching pours through the screen, and Credo has to grip his cock at the base until his knuckles turn white just to keep himself from cumming. Oh he loves every sound you make, he loves thinking of how wet you've become for him. And what better proof than this? The only thing he doesn't know is how many fingers you're fucking yourself with, but he lets his imagination run away with that too. "I want to surrender every drop of myself to him, until the taste of me is burned onto his tongue. I want to live and serve and worship at the cradle of his hip, until he bleeds me dry–"

An abrupt pause in your confession pulls Credo's attention from the space in front of him, his breath hitching when he sees your outline massaging and pulling at your breasts. You're slumped backwards against the wall behind you, head tilted towards the heavens as if in prayer; a futile means of salvation when your silken sins drip from your core.

"You are beyond redemption, lost and stray forever," he announces, "but if you kneel, I will let you depart with my blessing, and may the demons that follow you on your path take heed." Credo hears a light laugh from you, coquettish and anticipating, trailing off into a breathy moan as you rise to your feet. He listens to the muted clicks of your heels on the carpet as you situate yourself upon the raised step before the screen, sinking to your knees in front of it. He can't see what expression you're making, but oh, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that pretty little mouth of yours is hanging open, waiting for his hot blessing to land heavy on your tongue.

Credo joins you on that raised step, staring down at your fuzzy outline as he pumps at his cock above you. He was already so close before, head swimming with erratic thoughts and broken images, but all it takes for him to break is the sight of your tongue pressing right up against the screen - the only part of you he's seen with any clarity all night - so pink and glistening with saliva, somehow just as intimate as what he's imagining the wet mess between your legs to be.

With a breathless sigh, and shallow thrusts into his closed fist, creamy strings spurt from the head of his cock, leaking through the modest gaps in the screen, coating your tongue, your face, in a thick layer of warmth. Whether it's the taste of him, the feel of him, the clandestine nature of everything you've said and done since you set foot into this little stall, Credo senses your own deliverance, can feel it in the hot puffs and gasps that fan over his cock. With long, slow strokes, he coaxes the last of his blessing from his length, providing you with one last salty stream, before he steps back.

A contented sigh graces his ears, followed by wet slurps and a pop as you clean his remnants from your face with your fingers. Credo watches your shadow rise and lean towards the screen, one delicate hand lifting to press against it. He can glimpse your fingers through the little gaps, how they're so obviously wet from either you or him or _both of you_ , but more than that, how they lightly pet and caress. He thinks of how they might feel on his skin, those fleeting touches across his back, inside his thighs, over his chest, and he hardens again.

"Thank you, Father," you say, not even a little out of breath despite the low, husky quality of your voice, "but I fear I'll be in need of another blessing soon."

**Author's Note:**

> "Hey Sync why did you use the MGS song for this?"
> 
> Because it's a good song ok. 🤣 An incredible song that got unfortunately got lumped with a not so great video game.


End file.
